


Dal Segno

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, More tags to be added, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12097707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: Maglor wakes, and he is not cold, and he is not hungry, and his hands do not ache.He can barely recall the last time that his hands did not hurt. It must have been before the Silmarils, possibly even before the war; it is only recently that he was able to play the harp again. And yet he is not cold, and he is not hungry, and his hands do not ache.Dal segno: musical notation meaningrepeat from marked point.





	1. Dal Segno

**Author's Note:**

> Dal segno: musical notation meaning _repeat from marked point._

Maglor wakes, and he is not cold, and he is not hungry, and his hands do not ache. 

He can barely recall the last time that his hands did not hurt. It must have been before the Silmarils, possibly even before the war; it is only recently that he was able to play the harp again. And yet he is not cold, and he is not hungry, and his hands do not ache. 

Maglor opens his eyes. The room is red and silver, opulently decorated; silver-gold light streams in the window.  _ I’m dreaming, _ he thinks first, although his hands hurt even in dreams now, and then,  _ It’s Formenos.  _

There’s a knock on the door. “Káno?” says a soft voice, and — oh. He’s definitely dreaming. 

“Come in,” Maglor says, his voice tight, and Fëanáro enters. 

Usually in these dreams Maglor wanders a deserted Tirion or picks through an abandoned and ruined Alqualonde; his father and his brothers feature in other dreams, but not the ones that take place before the Darkening. Maglor’s throat feels like it's been corked shut. 

“You were screaming,” Fëanáro says. He looks softer than Maglor remembers, warm like a hearth and not blazing like a forest fire. “Kanafinwë, are you alright?” 

No, he thinks. “Yes,” he says, “just a dream.” 

Fëanáro looks unconvinced. Maglor must have lost his skill at lying in the years he spent alone. 

“I love you,” he says. It's an offer as much as a statement, a true thing that Fëanáro will want to hear. Maedhros would have picked up on that immediately, but Fëanáro doesn't seem to. 

“I love you too, Káno,” Fëanáro says, and hugs him, and does not ask again, and Maglor allows himself to melt into his father's touch. 

It is almost certainly a dream — but Maglor has missed this so much that he finds he is able to put that aside, and not care. 

* * *

Maglor settles gingerly into his own life, becomes accustomed to being called Makalaurë or Prince Kanafinwë, learns not to stop and stare at all of the people whose deaths he has witnessed. 

It does not come easily. Within two days there are whispers throughout Formenos —  _ Prince Kanafinwë screams in a strange language in his sleep, _ and  _ Prince Kanafinwë has closed himself in his studio,  _ and  _ Prince Kanafinwë looks pained whenever his brothers walk by, _ and  _ Prince Kanafinwë shies away from the light of the Silmarils  _ — for Maglor can remember a time when he was able to relax in their light, remembers when his father's greatest creations inspired his own, but now he looks at them and sees nothing but blood and death and pointless,  _ pointless _ war. 

Of course, Maitimo figures him out before the week is done. There was no other way it could have happened. 

He corners Maglor in his studio where he's holed himself up for the morning, closes the door behind him, and sits down on the floor in front of Maglor like when they were children. 

“Makalaurë,” he says, when Maglor pauses. “What's going on?” 

Maglor sets down his harp. “Nothing you wouldn't already know about,” he says as lightly as he can manage. 

“That's a lie,” Maitimo says, because of course he was never going to not notice. “You didn't recognize your own composition yesterday, Káno, something is wrong and I  _ don't _ know what it is and  _ you're scaring me.”  _

Maedhros didn't look afraid when they were facing down armies. Maitimo looks Maglor in the face, and his eyes are wide. “I'm sorry,” Maglor says, and means it. 

“Don't be sorry,” Maitimo says, gentler than Maglor can remember hearing him since before Alqualondë, “just tell me.” 

Maglor is out of practice with osanwë; there was never much occasion to use it when he lived alone by the sea. He fumbles with it until he finds Maitimo’s mind, still shining bright with youth and with hope, and sends — 

_ — their father is away at a festival and Makalaurë hopes against hope that the Valar allow him to return and then — everything goes dark, not like the light is gone but like the light has been smothered — there’s screaming and nobody can see and —  _

_ — when the presence of the darkness leaves the light doesn’t come back but they find torches and light them — the whole city’s destroyed, Finwë’s body is smeared on the steps, not lying there, smeared —  the Silmarils are gone and the Trees are gone and Finwë is gone and everything is so, so dark —  _

_ — Makalaurë screams until his throat is burning until he hears his brothers yelling back until he knows they’re alive until he knows they’re safe — it’s months of walking to Taniquetil and when they get there the Valar have said nothing, done nothing — Fëanaro nearly kills himself when he hears that Finwë is dead, Makalaurë has never seen Curufinwë so frightened and he would pray he never will again except that the Valar aren’t doing anything and, and — there are speeches that blur together and an Oath that is crystal clear and, and, and — _

_ — the Teleri won’t help the Teleri say they’ll see wisdom the Teleri say they’ll get over it as if anyone could ever just get over it — there is a battle and Makalaurë knows how to kill an enemy but not how to stop one and he is only now noticing the lack — their father burns the ships and all of them help and it is only later that they realize Ambarto is gone, gone, gone, they killed their brother they killed their brother they killed him their father said to follow him and they did and they killed their brother and they didn’t even know until —  _

— Maglor stops there. Maitimo is pale and his hands are shaking and his eyes are red. “There’s more,” he says out loud to Maitimo. “I can show it to you when we can disappear for a week,” and when Maitimo looks like he’s about to protest he adds, “I’m not just delaying, you’ll need the time.” 

Maitimo nods, slowly. “Makalaurë,” he says, and stops.  _ “Makalaurë,” _ and Maglor pulls him forward and holds him tight enough that Maedhros would have flinched and Maitimo settles into his arms like a small child, never mind that Maitimo is a head taller than Maglor ever will be. 

He has his brothers, and he has Fëanáro, and he has time. Maglor will not lose them again, any of them.  _ This I swear, _ he thinks, and he does not say aloud. 


	2. Sforzando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sforzando: a musical term meaning _with a sudden or marked emphasis._

A messenger comes with a summons from the Valar far sooner than Maglor had remembered: there is a festival on Taniquetil —  _ a feast for the reconciliation of the Noldor, _ the messenger calls it, and she doesn’t seem to have noticed the irony — and the Valar have ordered Fëanáro to attend. Maglor’s younger brothers are infuriated, and Maitimo looks terrified for a tiny sliver of a second before he schools his face back into placid calm, and Maglor cannot make himself feel anything but dread. 

“We should all go to the festival with him,” Maglor says to his younger brothers, when Tyelkormo and Carnistir are seething and Curufinwë has gone dangerously still and the Ambarussa have just returned from hunting and plan to go out again the next day. “The whole of Formenos. If they demand our father then they get half of the Noldor behind him — we should show them that, since they clearly didn't learn when we all went into exile with him.” None of them comment on how flat Maglor’s voice has gone, but it's clear from the way that Curufinwë and Ambarto glance at one another that they have noticed. 

“We should all go with you,” Maitimo says to Fëanáro in his study. “The whole of Formenos, or at the very least the whole of our family. The Valar want a show of unity, so we’ll  _ give _ them a show of unity.” 

Fëanáro smiles over at his oldest son. “No,” he says, patient as Fëanáro almost never is, “I will not ask all of our people to leave their new homes for a year. But it's definitely tempting, I'll give you that, and it certainly would be a statement.” And that is that. 

And Fëanáro who asks so much of his people does not ask them for this, and Maglor’s dread threatens to eat him alive from the inside out. 

Maglor and Maitimo never did manage to get their week alone. 

* * *

Grandfather Finwë announces that he will not be attending the festival. 

Maitimo tries to convince him that it would be a gesture of solidarity with Fëanáro; Curufinwë tries to convince him that it would be an insult to the sanctimonious, self-important Valar. Both of them fail, and fail quickly. Maglor and Maitimo attempt to convince him to come with them anyway, and fail even faster. 

Their father announces that he will bring his sons and nobody else. The people of Formenos approve, for the most part. Maglor waits until the dead silence that falls at Laurelin’s peak and takes Curufinwë’s forge gloves and packs the Silmarils into Maitimo’s bag: Fëanáro was never going to be persuaded to bring them along, and so it falls to Maglor to do so, however much he hates the things. If he can prevent the Silmarils from being stolen, he can prevent the Oath from being sworn. 

The eight of them set out for Taniquetil. Maglor could  _ scream _ with how little he can do about it. 

* * *

The journey to Taniquetil takes nearly six months. There is nothing that Maglor can say or do, nothing that will convince Fëanáro to turn back and bring Finwë with him, nothing that will stop Morgoth from destroying their light, nothing that will end with Formenos whole, nothing that will end with the Noldor whole. He cannot do it with the time that he has; he could not do it with all of the time in the world. 

“You brought the Silmarils with us,” Maitimo says a week in, the first time they're able to steal a moment away from Fëanáro. It is not a question; it is not an accusation; it might be a question, if Maglor tilts his head and squints a little. 

“Of course I did,” Maglor says, and then, “Don't tell Father just yet, I want to make sure they don't make us a target once the Trees are gone.”  

“Of course I won't,” Maitimo says. And that is that. 

* * *

Maglor pulls his brothers aside one by one and makes them promise him that there will be no oaths sworn. The Silmarils are in Maitimo’s bag wrapped in two layers of clothes and under a bundle of manuscripts, but Maglor has lived alongside Curufinwë for thousands of years and he has learned the value of redundant protection. 

“No oaths, never, no matter what happens at the Festival, promise me,” he says, and they look at him as if he is making them promise never to grow a second head but all of them make the promise. Maglor can tell that they're only agreeing to humor him, but as long as he can prevent the Oath from being sworn he doesn't care. 

* * *

The festival, when they arrive at it, is bright and shining and beautiful; the Trees are so bright they are nearly blinding, the city gorgeous and gleaming, the people joyous and unaware. There are glares — Fëanáro and his sons are wearing old forge clothes with their hair almost loose, while everybody else at the festival is decked out in colorful robes and sparkling jewels — but Maglor ignores them; it isn't as if he is unused to being glared at. 

On Taniquetil he finds himself almost, but still not quite, able to relax. 

Nolofinwë makes a speech, publicly announcing his forgiveness and swearing loyalty to Fëanáro. It is as grand and eloquent as befits a prince of the Noldor; Maglor barely hears it. 

The festival is crowded. Pityo and Telvo stay by Maglor’s side in shifts, so that he is never left on his own; Curufinwë has been shadowing their father and Maitimo is speaking with Findekáno and Tyelkormo is over by the fountain with Irissë and Carnistir has gone off somewhere on his own and Maglor can feel himself starting to panic because the Trees are still shining right now but that won't keep being true for long and  _ he can't find his younger brother —  _

— and then abruptly everything goes black, and Maglor takes the Ambarussa’s hands and clings to his youngest brothers like a lifeline in the dark. 


	3. Staccato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staccato: musical term meaning _sharp, distinct, and separated._

He does not scream, this time.

It would do him no good; _everyone_ is calling for family they cannot see, and Maglor’s ears are good but he still would not hear his brothers’ voices over the noise. There is no light but a handful of torches, but there is at least no pressing, tangible darkness.

“Stay with me,” he tells the Ambarussa, and is surprised at how sure he sounds. They follow him through the crowd to the center of the city, where he knows Maitimo and Nolofinwë stand even if he cannot see them.

“We need torches,” he says, in the loud clear voice he adopted while he was king, and then he turns to Maitimo. “Do you know where our other brothers are,” he says, quiet and rushed, and Maitimo takes Pityo and Telvo’s hands from him and says “Yes, Carnistir’s in the palace and I saw the others ten minutes ago — Makalaurë, _what do we need to do —”_

Finwë is dead. Finwë is dead and Nolofinwë is right there and Fëanáro is — somewhere —

“We need light,” Maglor says without hesitation, “and our crops are going to die without the Trees, but too much light will paint a target on our backs. Is there word from the Valar?” He knows there isn't.

“No,” Nolofinwë says, and he sounds as if there are questions he is not asking. Maglor nods as if this is new information before remembering that they can't see him.

He lays a hand on Maitimo’s shoulder and squeezes. Maitimo covers his hand with his own and squeezes back. “We're here,” Maglor says softly. “We're still here, we can be alright.” He is grateful that he cannot see Nolofinwë’s expression. Maitimo’s shoulder relaxes beneath Maglor’s hand.

There is no Darkness here. There is no light. There is only the rise and fall of his brother’s shoulders, only the warmth of Maitimo beside him, only the weight of kingdoms on his back and a phantom ache in his palms from burn wounds that do not yet exist.

* * *

With no way to mark time, the darkness seems to stretch on for a small eternity. Fëanáro asks leave to go to Formenos and ensure his father’s safety, and Fëanáro is denied. He proclaims that they are all prisoners of the Valar here. It is difficult to disagree with him, under the circumstances, and Maglor does not try.

Curufinwë works with Fëanáro in the forges, stays with him whenever he can. Maglor does not stop him. Nolofinwë avoids Fëanáro when he's working and asks his advice when he isn't. Tyelperinquar clings to his father, and clings to his uncles when his father is not there; Maitimo takes to holding him during meetings with Nolofinwë, who is still regent until the messenger arrives.

Maglor keeps the Silmarils out of sight and off the table: they have not been stolen, this time around, but he has no wish to draw Melkor here. Maitimo asks, and then asks again, and then does not. _(Would he really come to Taniquetil?_ whispers a voice in the back of his mind, and Maglor responds, _He might._ Which thought comes from the force of the Oath and which from his own reason, Maglor cannot say.)

They have food enough to last them, at least for a while. Maglor sings up illusions of the sun, hoping that it will be enough to persuade plants to grow again; it works, but slowly. There is no word from the Valar.

* * *

 _Am I still Doomed?_ Maglor thinks, for half of a second when he is trying to sleep, and does not pursue the thought. It will lead him nowhere if he is; it will only make him more frantic and less effective if he is not.

* * *

 _I didn't tell Maitimo about the Doom,_ he thinks, for half of a second in the darkness of day, and then the messenger arrives.

She's young, not as young as the Ambarussa but younger than Carnistir. Maglor knew her name the first time around. He does not know it now. He thinks perhaps she died at Alqualondë. Maedhros would have known.

“King Finwë is dead,” she says between desperate gulps of breath — she must have taken her horse at a gallop — Fëanáro’s face crumples and he falls to his knees, tear tracks shining in the torchlight. Maglor drops down next to him, takes his father’s hands, says nothing, the first time around Fëanáro left the city and nearly killed himself when he heard and Maglor cannot will not stop him from grieving but Maglor will stop him from dying —

There is crying, somewhere in the background. Maglor has known this was coming for a year but it comes as a surprise to everyone around him except Maitimo and he is distantly aware that things are happening around him but all he can really feel is Fëanáro's hands shaking. _I'm older than my father is,_ Maglor thinks, and then, _I'm the oldest person in the room,_ and then, _I should be crying. Why am I not crying?_

“Someone should tell the Queen,” is all that he says out loud.

* * *

Fëanáro does not slay himself. Fëanáro does not die of grief. Fëanáro takes his sons with him, back to Formenos; they carry torches and ride as quickly as the horses will go.

All of Fëanáro's notes, all of his prototypes, are gone. Maitimo takes the Silmarils from his pack and places them in the vault where they belong, seemingly untouched.

Fëanáro is grieving, desperate, _trapped._ “You don't have to do this,” Maitimo tells him, “you don't have to be king, I know you don't want this crown,” but Fëanáro is crowned nonetheless.

Nolofinwë has sworn him fealty already. Arafinwë swears him fealty now. There is no question of his sons’ loyalty, and — when Fëanáro returns to Tirion crowned and King — Maglor reminds his brothers of the promise they made.

There is no Oath.

There is no light but torches and what illusions will hold when Maglor’s voice goes scratchy.

* * *

There is no word from the Valar.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to Alicorn for the title and the help, to Sonata and Tekeler and Lantalótë for the brainstorming, to Neva and Kaylin for the cheerleading, and to everyone for the support. <3


End file.
